Category: Writing other things

The grass is always greener when you’re writing ‘off-topic’.

Short Story: The leap not taken

The wintry twilight was closing in and the ferry to Manly heaved and rolled past the Heads. Back when Ned was a junior clerk, he had stood with the other fellows, feet astride, balancing on the outer deck as the ferry dipped and rose through the swell. It had been a matter of pride not to hold on to anything. Older now, he still took the ferry from the city and his cronies from the office still congregated outside, their hats and caps jauntily tipped back on their heads. But Ned sat inside, his winter overcoat buttoned up, his fedora hat tilted low, to keep the worst of the chill off his exposed ears.

As the ferry approached the wharf, the wind was rising and the waves pitched and tossed. Anxious to get home, passengers folded their newspapers and rose to gather close to sliding doors, packed in so tightly they swayed as one.

All eyes were fixed on the ferrymen standing outside on the deck. Broad shouldered, cigarettes lodged in the corner of their mouths, they looped the sodden rope through their hardened hands, ready to lasso the bollards on the wharf. The tide was low and the wharf loomed high above them, casting the outer deck into gloom. The echo of the seething waves rushed through the pylons barely visible in the darkness under the wharf. Until the ferrymen secured the boat, they couldn’t heave the gangplanks into position. The young lads waited, one foot stretched up to the rail, ready to leap up to the wharf, too impatient to wait for the gangplanks. Over the grinding chug of the engines, they called out, urging each other on, one eye calculating the distance, the other on the women still inside. ‘See, I’m not just a boring office clerk in the city’ their actions boasted.

As the boat rose, the ferrymen cast their ropes.

Missed. With a thwack the sodden ropes fell back against the gunnel.

The ferrymen cursed, coiling back the heavy ropes.

Behind the sliding door, Ned checked his watch. The 144 bus would be leaving any minute. He peered through the salt-misted window, watching his fellow clerk Frank jostle for position with the young lads on the outer deck. He tutted under his breath. When he got home he would tell his wife about Frank’s delusions of youth. That might liven her up a little. Marjorie seemed—he didn’t know quite how to describe it—a bit down. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. Or the last time she’d cooked something other than macaroni cheese. A chap wasn’t asking too much was he, to have some variety in his dinner?

Marjorie used to like taking a trip on the ferry. From their back verandah they could see out toward North Head. If the water was rough they’d see the ferry rolling and heaving its way into Manly and they’d walk for half an hour to get down to the wharf and buy a return ticket just for the fun of it. How her face had lit up when they’d done that. She’d tuck her arm in his and chatter the whole way home, sharing her thrill at her new life by the sea, so far from her life back on the family property in the dry flat plains.

Perhaps Frank felt him staring, for he turned to look back, grinning and lifting his briefcase by way of a wave. Or was he mocking him? Everything was a joke to Frank. It made the hours in their office cubicle very tedious.

Nettled, Ned set his jaw and edged forward between the other passengers. Stepping outside, the wind blasted him full in the face threatening to lift his hat. He clamped one hand on top. It wouldn’t do to lose it. That wasn’t the sort of story that would make Marjorie smile, not when the cost of a new hat would cut even further into the housekeeping. They’d hoped he’d have been promoted by now, but old Simmons had intimated that perhaps at the end of the financial year, but the financial year had come and gone, and nothing had been said.

Again the ferrymen threw.

Again they missed.

Again they swore.

Silhouetted in the lights from the wharf, Frank was up on the rail, one hand on the floor of the upper deck for balance. ‘Watch me’, said his grin.

The ferry lifted with the next wave and Frank teetered for a moment, as the lads jeered, ‘Come on grandad, show us what you’ve got.’

Ned watched as Frank—a suited, hatted Nureyev—hung suspended mid-air.

‘He’s not gonna make it!’ shouted one of the onlookers.

With a crash, the waves sucked back and the distance between the ferry and the wharf doubled.

Ned, along with the other passengers, leaned over the rail, searching for any sign of Frank in the churning foam.

Then the water surged again and the ferry rolled towards the wharf.

He held his breath waiting for the boat to roll back away. For one dreadful moment, only Frank’s bowler hat was visible in the foam. But then his briefcase followed, still gripped tightly in his hand. And then his head emerged, spitting a spume of water from his mouth.

The lads bent double laughing and the other passengers cackled in relief.

Once more the ferry yawed away from the wharf and Ned leaned over the railing, trying to catch sight of Frank.

The ferryman gave him a shove. ‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, heaving the rope up to the wharf to loop the iron bollard at last.

Ned waited, heart pounding, as the ferrymen roped and made the ferry fast. The gangplank thudded into place at his feet, and he was pushed forward by the press of passengers. Even now, with the ferry tied up, the rise and fall of the water skewed the gangplank this way and that. He fought to stare down to the water as the gangplank groaned and creaked under their feet. There! Behind the barnacled pylon, a hand. Then in the shadows, bowler hat back on his head, Frank emerged, clumsily swimming his way to the next pylon.

Reaching the safe stability of the wharf, Ned picked up his pace. Wouldn’t want to miss his bus – Marjorie would have dinner waiting.

A sploshing sound from behind caught him mid-step. Frank had made it to the beachside pool and climbed the stairs to the street. His suit was sodden and his wet footprints tracked along the concrete but, with a flourish, he lifted his dripping bowler in acknowledgement of the scattered applause of his fellow passengers.

When Ned arrived home, he told Marjorie all about it as he forced down the macaroni cheese. He’d thought to amuse her. When he finished, she didn’t comment, just rose to clear away the dishes.

He made one last attempt. ‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me doing such thing, now would you?’ he snorted.

Her hand brushed his shoulder. ‘No, you would never do such a thing,’ she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

________

Short Story

This short story was tucked away in a drawer for a long while but I figure it’s time to drag it out into the light of day. Hope you like it!

The Essentials

Miss Solly locked her bag into the lower drawer of her desk and clipped the key on the chain about her neck. She removed the dustcover from her computer and folded it into three before tucking it out of sight. She exhaled slowly. Mr Alexander Svaric, today’s applicant, would be here any minute—or should be, if he had any chance of being appointed. Brandon & Co Detective Agency had to find someone suitable soon or they’d be out of business and thirty years of her working life would disintegrate to a one-line resumé item.

Three floors below, Alex Svaric pushed his way past piles of uncollected mail by the doorway. He had heard glowing reports of the agency—all the biggest clients and the best jobs—so he’d expected lots of chrome with piped music in the elevators. Instead, he gasped his way up three flights of narrow unrenovated stairs. The musty smell increased with each level. Fresh air hadn’t filtered its way into this office block since last century.

Outside the door to the agency, he smoothed his hair and adjusted his tie. Mentally he rehearsed his pitch. His police training had been cut short when he was head-hunted for an elite unit in the armed services. Now it was time for fresh challenges. That was it—snappy tone, positive, forward looking—it didn’t do to dwell.

On entering, Alek’s second disappointment was the receptionist. He’d pictured a chatty blonde who’d appreciate a break and would give him some ideas about what might go down well with the boss. Women thought him handsome—though he knew that was mainly to do with his height and build. His nose had been broken so many times that, these days, he shot for rogue-like charisma instead of pretty boy. The job would be his in a heartbeat. Nice of him, really, to give Brandon & Co the opportunity to have him.

The woman behind the desk would have been fifty on a good day and, by the look on her face, today wasn’t that day. She peered over her bifocals by way of a greeting.

“Alek Svaric’s the name.” He flashed a grin. “You’re looking at the agency’s next best detective.”

The gargoyle surveyed him for a long moment. “Our next detective, or the next best one?”

“Ha.” The smile slid off his face. “I’m due to meet with your boss, Mr Brandon, at nine.” He emphasised ‘your boss’. Put the bitch back in her box.

She inclined her head toward the chairs.

He sat.

And sat.

Rapid-fire clicks came from the old dragon’s keyboard. Every so often, the clicking would stop, only to be replaced by the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty, then ten o’clock came and went.

Might as well check his emails while he waited. He foraged in his pocket for his phone. The damn suit must’ve shrunk; he didn’t know why he’d bothered getting it cleaned. He slid his butt forward on the seat of the wooden chair, sucked his stomach in and eased his hand into the pocket. The tips of his fingers fumbled with his phone—it was chunky and heavy. He needed to update—if he got the job, that is.

He stabbed at the screen. No signal.

No internet reception? How did this place get its reputation?

Perhaps the office was shielded in some way. He stared at the stony-faced woman—when she wasn’t tapping like some demented woodpecker, she was sliding the mouse. Then she’d pause and flick her thumb, slip and slide, another pause, another flick—right-click this time, her wrist jerk barely perceptible. Yes, she was on the net, all right. So that made sense—security conscious, with restricted internet access only.

He put his phone away.

Eleven o’clock. Had she even let the boss know he was there?

He cleared his throat. Before he’d uttered a word, the beady eyes were upon him.

“Mr Brandon has been delayed.”

“I’ll come back another day,” he said, standing. Why didn’t she tell him this two hours ago?

Her stare lasted for what seemed like a full minute.

“You could try that.”

It was a dare. Leave now and kiss the job goodbye. Well, he’d show her; he would wait. He’d been in a lot of waiting rooms over the last twelve months. Maybe it’d be for nothing, but he’d be damned if he’d give up.

With each tick of the clock, the sides of the room pressed in further. No paintings on the walls. Just wood panelling, interrupted by mottled glass partitions. Gold lettering on the door to the right of the reception desk— probably Mr Brandon’s office. The office on the other side was unoccupied. Behind the glass he made out the blurred shadows of cardboard boxes piled in a discarded heap. An office of his own, that’d be the way to go. But a job in an agency this well-known would have a shed load of applicants. Most private investigators only got casual work—that was the way of things these days, but the advert had said permanent full-time and it had appeared for weeks now. So, were they being picky, or did the other applicants think better of the deal after they’d seen the place?

One o’clock. What he’d give for a drink. He was parched. Dehydrated, no doubt, from last night. God, he’d put a few away. He’d settle for water now though. He ran his furry tongue across his teeth, imagining how it would feel to stick his head under a tap and let the water flow into his open mouth.

With the image, came a responsive twitch from his bladder. Don’t think about it. He wasn’t going to put his hand up like a kid in class and ask the schoolmarm to be excused to take a leak. Think about something else.

The typing stopped. The woman removed a plastic container from behind the desk. She snapped the lid open, took out a small plastic fork and speared a lettuce leaf. The leaf disappeared into her jaws, two crunches and the fork dived again. He was almost grateful for the diversion. Finished, she rose and walked briskly through a small doorway at the far end of the office.

There’d be a toilet in the office washroom, he thought. This was his chance—he’d duck out and be back before she knew he’d gone. He was half-way to his feet when she returned.

Fed and watered, the snow-queen seemed—or perhaps he was imagining it—marginally less ice-bound. It was worth a shot.

“So, how would it be,” he asked—no grin this time, keep things respectful, “if I left my resumé for Mr Brandon to look at when he’s free?”

Her expression was placid.

Encouraged, he continued. “I’m sure he’s eager to fill the position, given the time it’s been vacant.” He paused, indicating the empty office with the cardboard boxes. “You could give me a call or email and let me know when he’d be sure to be available.”

She nodded, picked up the phone and pressed a button.

The door to her right opened a crack. Mr Brandon was the sort of man who would pass unremarked in a crowd. He had lips so thin that, when he talked, his mouth movements were only visible by a wandering line like an old cartoon character.

“Come in, Mr Svaric. At last, we meet.”

When five o’clock came around, Miss Solly could still hear the men’s murmured voices from behind the partition. She draped the dustcover over the computer, unclipped her key and retrieved her bag.

The selection of candidates took a long time, she thought, but, as Mr Brandon always said, there were three criteria that made a good detective and every one of the criteria had to be met to meet the agency’s standards. Punctuality and persistence, of course. Third, there was flexibility—things didn’t always go according to plan in following a case.

The handle turned and Mr Brandon ushered the candidate out of his office. Mr Brandon’s thin lips creased into an upturned crescent moon.

“Mr Svaric will be joining us from tomorrow, Miss Solly. I leave the arrangements to you,” he said and disappeared back into his office.

Despite the news, Svaric’s body was tense.

Miss Solly jerked her head toward the door. “Conveniences on the ground floor; first left down the hall. We’ll see you tomorrow—nine o’clock sharp.”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. Walking fast with his thighs clamped together, he bolted for the door.

Mr Brandon’s three criteria for selecting a detective were all very well. But, Miss Solly mused, stakeouts were often long, and people being followed could not be relied upon to stay in one place long enough to allow for comfort stops. It was her fourth criterion that was the clincher.

When I’m not writing…

Poetry is always a stretch for me but, inspired by a great workshop by Ed Wright from The Creative Word Shop, this emerged!

‘When I’m not writing, I’m knitting’

My mind is tangled yarn.

I rip my knitting off its needles.

Wool trails from the bin onto the floor,

where lie the fragments of paper from unfinished drafts,

where the vacuum cleaner can no longer go.

If I leave,

If I close the door,

Will my mind unravel?

(Alison Ferguson, 11 June 2022)

Covid Corpse*

‘And another death at Sea Vista Nursing Home,’ Inspector Bill Taylor said, reaching for the hand sanitiser as he finished up the morning briefing.

Sarah Ryan and her fellow officers began to rise from their scattered seats, giving a perfunctory groan. In these days of COVID-19, one more death in a nursing home — even one that had been so hard hit as Sea Vista — wasn’t news. And besides, thought Sarah, it was just another old person.

‘Sergeant Ryan,’ the Inspector beckoned her over. ‘This one needs a quick look-see.’

Sarah approached only as far as the mandated 1.5 metre mark. She knew how germ-phobic the Inspector was at the best of times. The betting pool was growing that he’d be wearing a full hazmat suit to work by the month’s end.

‘The one at Sea Vista? Why me?’ Sarah tried to make her question sound less of a whine. It wasn’t the risk of catching the virus. It was the smell. ‘I mean, Jack’s free.’ She gestured futilely in the direction of her colleague as he made a speedy exit.

‘As are you,’ said Inspector Bill Taylor,  ‘And besides, you need the experience. You haven’t done a possible homicide yet, have you? They’ve got themselves a body in the library. The bloke’s heart probably just gave out. I wouldn’t be bothered usually, let alone now with them all going down like nine-pins,’ the Inspector said, continuing to work the sanitiser into his chafed hands.

At the mention of homicide, Sarah’s rising rebellion stuck somewhere in the region of her throat. She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably as if her ribs were closing in. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just the smell. Come on, it’s not as if you haven’t smelled worse.

It didn’t help.

It wasn’t just the smell. The cold chicken flesh of the hand gripping hers.

 ‘But the Superintendent’s fielding complaints from some nutter whose mother’s in there,’ he continued. ‘Keeps threatening to go to the press about a serial mercy killer on the loose. But look, don’t go getting ideas, just focus on the body in the library. Take some statements, do the report and keep the media off our backs. You’re good with the oldies. Wasn’t that grandmother of yours in a home?’

The words hung uncomfortably in the air between them.

The fug of soiled sheets. Windows grimed with years of stale air. The rasping laboured rattle of death.

Sarah turned on her heel to go. There was no point in arguing. She’d go in, talk to the manager, have a quick look and be out of there before the day’s end. No need to talk to anyone of the old people. They’d likely all be demented anyway.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ said the Inspector. ‘There’s a no visitor rule. COVID safety and all that. If you need more than a day, then you’ll be there overnight. Pack a bag.’

* (I’m very pleased to announce that this story of mine won first prize in the Wyong Writers pandemic short story competition, December 2020)

Slash & Burn (aka Editing)

You know that moment when you think you’ve polished a piece of writing to perfection? Savour it, because the next time you read over it, you’ll wonder how you missed all those clumsy word choices, awkward sentence constructions, and frank errors.

I’ve been immersed in editing two of my ‘works in progress’ over the last few months and have discovered the joys of automated editing tools. These computerised tools use complex algorithms to highlight aspects of your writing which may need attention.

Of course, word processing programs like Word do this to some extent, e.g., underlining questionable grammar and typos in red. But these automated editing tools do much more. For a review of six popular tools (After the Deadline, Autocrit, Grammarly, Hemmingway Editor, ProWritingAid, Word Rake) see: https://thewritelife.com/automatic-editing-tools/. They all offer free trials, and most provide a free version, with the option to upgrade at a cost.

The tool I have been using is Autocrit and it’s teaching me a lot about my writing habits. For example, long paragraphs, repeating words, and too many fillers (most notably, ‘that’). Yes, it does get tedious, but I think the end result is successfully moving from ‘polished’ to ‘burnished’.

Ekphrasis

Here’s another fascinating rabbit warren to explore in the writing world. I’ve been to a couple of talks this year that have mentioned ekphrasis and I’m starting to get my head around it. It’s traditionally a poetry term and the Poetry Foundation explains it as:

‘… a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning. A notable example is “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, in which the poet John Keats speculates on the identity of the lovers who appear to dance and play music, simultaneously frozen in time and in perpetual motion.” (Poetry Foundation)

For the latest Live Reading run by the Hunter Writers Centre, we were invited to respond to the artworks of James Drinkwater, showcased by the Newcastle Art Gallery.  His vibrant paintings, sculpture and mixed media works prompted 25 writers to read out their ekphrastic responses to an enthusiastic audience. Most readings were poems but I was amongst several people who responded in prose.

The artwork that I responded to was titled ‘Surrender – a self portrait 2019’ and it was listed as a ‘mixed media assemblage’.  For copyright reasons, I can’t show you a photo and its picture isn’t shown in the catalogue, but perhaps you’ll be sufficiently intrigued to get along to the exhibition (ends 11 August 2019). On the other hand, the following picture (by Mysticartdesign) is free to use so, while it looks NOTHING like Drinkwater’s artwork, it’ll give you a flavour of where my imagination flew. (Be warned – I may have been reading dystopic fiction!)

The Messenger

Novocastrians, I come with news from the Tableland. I know from your good Leader that I am the first traveller who has made it past the brigands that beset the road over Barrington to reach your coastal commune. 

My Leader has sent me to ask — nay, implore — you for your help. He charges me to tell you of our troubles, and seek your aid. He is sure that, once you learn of the situation, you can but send every able-bodied fighter to join the massed army he is raising to fight the Threat.

But I go too fast, forgive me. My need is pressing and, in my agitation, I have failed to undertake those observances as are right and proper for one who stands before the Sacred Offerings. I do so now, in honour of our forebears who fought, man and woman, boy and girl, to drive back those who would try to wrest the last arable land from us. I give thanks to the landmines that guarded our borders; I give thanks to the missiles that sent the planes falling from the sky above; I give thanks to the shells that rained like fire on their ships so that they could not breach our safe harbour. And more than these, I honour the struggle of those who, faced with the choice of the white flag of surrender or the black flag of death, picked up their bloody shields, spears and axes and fought and died so that we, the children of their children, could build anew. I pledge, with all here present, to continue our quest to leave our dying Earth and to look to the stars.

We have all made these observances again and again since we were children and so perhaps we could be forgiven if the words have grown comfortable in the saying. Our forebears’ struggles seem but tales to tell around the fire, now that we have food to roast on the spit and skins to keep the winter chill from our bones. But the threat from the South is real. The ice has reached the shire of Hornsby and the seas themselves start to heave with sludge.

I see you shake your heads. What? You think I exaggerate? Port Macquarie, the last stronghold of the North fell to the Threat barely a Moon span ago. Only the Tableland stands between us and the destruction of all we have fought for. 

You keep your eyes fixed between your feet, sir. Perhaps you think that you would do better to defend your own commune rather than risk leaving it undefended? But think of the Sacred Offerings. Think of the lessons it teaches us. Only by uniting will we have sufficient force to successfully hold our ground and complete our quest.

Yes, I swear to you, the Golden Galaxy Voyager is nearing completion. Only one more section is needed. We are nearly to the top of the stairs to the stars. Would you have your children’s children say, as they shiver in their lonely ice caves, ‘if only’?

No. I see it in your eyes. No. A thousand times no. There will be no ‘if only’. We will not wave the white flag of surrender. We will fight, together, for the stars.

Character and Plot

There are many wonderful resources that explore the interrelationship between character development in writing and plot/structure. For example, in his video essays on ‘Anatomy of Chaos’, Adam Skelter suggests that the character’s emotional state (positive or negative) as they enter the scene should have changed through the scene so that their emotional state is substantially different. The way in which that change occurs is driven by the choices they make (e.g. due to external events, internal worldview, their goal), i.e. driven by their character.

In my writing group, we were given the challenge of writing a scene in which the character undergoes a significant change (change being the plot driver). So, just for fun, here’s my response to the exercise.

(Micheal McLean, inktober 11, Librarian – Creative Commons Generic 2.0 Licence with attribution)

The Library

The library was quiet: too quiet, for Elsie’s liking. She enjoyed the noise of the children at the story-telling group and the chatter of the book club ladies as she moved about, shelving books. But now it was seven o’clock and she was the staff member tasked with the responsibility of locking up.

She fingered the keys nervously in her pocket.

‘First time for everything,’ Mrs Grimes had said. ‘Time you took some responsibility.’

It was ridiculous to fear undertaking such a mundane task. But now, as she turned out each bank of overhead lights, moving her way back through the library, she found she was holding her breath. She scurried down the darkening avenues of shelving.

Only one more bank to do — but it was a two-way switch, one at top of the stairs to the stacks, its twin at the bottom in the gloom.

She clutched the keys tightly, screwing up her courage. One step and then the next. Could she just leave that one? No one would notice.

But she knew she must. Mrs Grimes would know. The woman had all-seeing eyes that spotted broken spines and turned-down page corners before the reader had even pushed their book down the return chute.

She snaked her hand around the door groping for the top switch.

But the light was already off.

Relief flooded her. She didn’t have to go down those stairs.

She began to withdraw her hand but found she couldn’t. Cold bony fingers gripped her wrist, drawing her into the musty void.

Her screams had only just begun.

The Up-side of Funerals

This time last year, the NSW Department of Family and Community Services (in concert with the Fellowship of Australian Writers, NSW) had declared ‘positive ageing‘ to be the theme for their 2018 Seniors Card Short Story Competition. As a FAWNSW member and a card-carrying Senior, I gave it a shot, and the following story made the ‘Top 100’ list and went into their 2018 anthology (available in hard copy from NSW local libraries, or you can download it in pdf from here).

The Upside of Funerals (a short story)

Ignoring Mitch’s quick flinch, Sarah pressed her powdered cheek against his. ‘So sad it’s taken an occasion such as this to see you again.’

It was nice to see that my old friends had stayed true to their roots. Sarah’s makeup had always been immaculate, even in those days of kaftans and sandals. Back then, Mitch’s diatribes on the bullshit pretensions of the socially mobile had been legendary. Today, however, he merely smiled thinly, restraining himself.

They stood in the rose garden of the crematorium grounds, looking at the other mourners as they assembled. Each of the new arrivals tried to disguise their shock as each recognised another here and there, through the veil of years masking their old friends’ faces. There wasn’t to be a funeral ceremony but, after scattering the ashes, there would be a wake in the pub nearby. Later, there’d be plenty of time for them to catch up. Now, greetings were shared guiltily, as if it were disrespectful given the occasion.

Mitch looked like he’d been uncertain what to wear for a non-funeral. Being middle-aged hadn’t stopped him from wearing jeans, but he’d selected his black ones and thrown on a dark brown leather jacket. It looked like the same one I’d clutched as his pillion passenger along icy winter roads when we were young and foolish. I never expected Mitch to make it past twenty, yet there he was, blinking in the sunlight, as if surprised to find himself still here.

Sarah’s ex-husband was wearing a sharp suit, the backs of his trouser legs shiny with wear. Paul had been her high-school sweetheart and their romance survived their university years, only to falter with the arrival of children. By the look of his suit, Paul had come out the worst from their divorce settlement.

It was forty or more years since I’d seen any of them. There was Jack, with his new partner. The thin brittle wife I’d known had been replaced years before. The drunken intimacy of a night best forgotten lay between us. And there was Geoff, his bulk looming even larger, shuffling about, his characteristic gait now age-appropriate. And Lauren, affecting imperturbability as always, intoned the eulogy that I didn’t want to hear. At least Cathy seemed to be enjoying herself. She surveyed the small group, her ice-sharp eyes noting all and her lips curling back with knowing appreciation of the absurdity of it all.

Mitch opened the tightly-sealed urn and tipped it through the thorns onto the petalled rose bed.

The smell was disconcertingly redolent of a barbeque. It made me think of that time we’d piled into the Kombie and headed out to the farmhouse of a friend of someone who none of us knew. We’d sat through the night drinking cheap flagon wine and smoking weed till dawn greyed the magic of the night into ash.

Here, surrounded by manicured lawns, there was something in the way they stood together, thinking about our fragile short lives that made sense of the daily struggle. The sound of soft guitar filtered amongst us. Mitch had tied his hair back, and begun to pick out sad notes on his acoustic guitar. It was good to hear his music again.

When he stopped, there were the sounds of throats being cleared and noses blown.

‘Coming to the pub?’ Paul asked Sarah.

She looked grateful to be asked.

‘You look like you could do with a drop of something,’ Geoff said, giving Lauren a bear hug.

He was probably avoiding commenting on her eulogy but she looked like the embrace was enough.

I watched them begin to leave, some headed to the pub, others back to their busy lives.

My ashes settled into the earth.

They, each a fragment of a once-shared friendship, were now scattering again into the air, swirling together for a moment in configurations of goodbyes, as if reluctant yet pleased in the end to leave.

I could not follow, but it had been good to see them all for one last time.

They each hoped to see one another again, yet not on an occasion such as this.

THE END

_____________

Hope you liked it! And if you’re feeling inspired to write then, the Department of Family and Community Services has recently announced the 2019 theme: ‘Love your Life’.  They’re a relentlessly cheerful bunch, aren’t they?)

See https://fawnsw.org.au/seniors-card-short-story-competition-2019/ for further information: Closing date 22 May, 2019.

Quaint old age?

I blame book clubs. If you belong to a library-run book club, you may have noticed a predilection for your reading list to comprise novels with older protagonists. The age range for ‘older’ can be anything from 50 to 80 or more, which is frightening from wherever you are standing on the timeline. These characters are considered remarkable by the miracle of being both older and yet interested and active participants in the world around them. The protagonists are (pick as many as apply):

  • Feisty
  • Quirky
  • Characters (as in ‘she’s a real character’)
  • Eccentric
  • Outspoken (but with a timid sidekick)
  • Timid (but with an outspoken sidekick)

And, almost universally,

  • Stuck in their ways (but will become adventurous by the end).

This is not to say that such books don’t make an entertaining read. They are a pleasant way to spend an effortless afternoon. Amongst my fellow book club members, the consensus ratings of these books were 3/5. Such books are usually well-written and well-edited to achieve that magic page turning quality. However, it’s the underlying characterisation of age that strikes me as open to question.

Here’s a summary of 2018’s teeth-gritting reading, including their publishers’ blurbs (in no particular order):

Hester and Harriet by Hilary Spiers (2015, Allen & Unwin) – genre mystery/’domestic fiction’

‘Hold on to your tea cups – you’re about to fall head over heels for Hester and Harriet, whose quiet and ordered Christmas celebrations are turned upside down with the arrival of their runaway teenage nephew and a young refugee woman and her baby.’

It wasn’t until I was about half-way into this book that I realised the ‘elderly’ sisters were in their early 60s.

The Fence by Meredith Jaffe (2016, Macmillan)

 ‘Gwen Hill has lived on Green Valley Avenue all her adult life. Here she brought her babies home, nurtured her garden and shared life’s ups and downs with her best friend and neighbour, Babs. So when Babs dies and the house next door is sold, Gwen wonders how the new family will settle into the quiet life of this cosy community. …Soon the neighbours are in an escalating battle that becomes about more than just council approvals, and boundaries aren’t the only things at stake.’

Jaffe teeters between a savage and insightful recognition of the realities of ageing (for example, the care of a dementing husband) and satirical farce as events compound as the older characters behave in increasingly irrational ways.

Lost & Found by Brooke Davis (2015, Hachette)

‘At seven years old, Millie Bird realises that everything is dying around her. She wasn’t to know that after she had recorded twenty-seven assorted creatures in her Book of Dead Things her dad would be a Dead Thing, too. Agatha Pantha is eighty-two and has not left her house since her husband died. She sits behind her front window, hidden by the curtains and ivy, and shouts at passers-by, roaring her anger at complete strangers. Until the day Agatha spies a young girl across the street. Karl the Touch Typist is eighty-seven when his son kisses him on the cheek before leaving him at the nursing home. As he watches his son leave, Karl has a moment of clarity. He escapes the home and takes off in search of something different. Three lost people needing to be found. But they don’t know it yet. Millie, Agatha and Karl are about to break the rules and discover what living is all about.’

This book distinguishes itself from the others by attempting to embrace the sexuality of the older person. However, when Agatha and Karl fall to their knees and make passionate love in the sandy desert, our book club members were unanimous in shrieking: not on the ground!!

The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree by Susan Wittig Albert (2010, Berkley)

 ‘The good old ladies of Darling, Alabama, are determined to keep their town beautiful. The Darling Dahlias garden club is off to a good start until rumors of trouble at a bank, an escaped convict, and a ghost digging around their tree surface. If anyone can get to the root of these mysteries, it’s the Darling Dahlias.’

Be warned – it’s a series.

This tendency to view older people as ‘cute’ or ‘dear things’ is the reverse side to the more serious ageist coin where older people are absent, invisible, or fragile/disabled/unwell/burdensome. There has been academic scholarship and debate exploring the perpetuation of ageist stereotypes in literature that is highly relevant to the dark side of this issue. I’d suggest that the lighter side is potentially just as damaging.

Looking at the novels I have endured this year in my book club, I have developed a maxim:

“The younger the author, the quainter the older protagonist.”

The portrayal of older protagonists by older authors is strikingly different. For example, this year we also read 86-year-old John Le Carré’s brilliant return to the world of Smiley and Guillam, ‘A Legacy of Spies (2018, Penguin).

Peter Guillam may be getting hard-of-hearing and he’s not above exploiting perceptions of failing aged memory, but he remains as sharp as his mentor.

If I’m fortunate enough to live as long as Le Carré, I’d love to read the novels that quaint-ifiers write in twenty or more years’ time and see if their characterisation of their protagonists has changed.